Deafening Silence
by Misgiving Writer
Summary: The snow drowns out all. No noise, no colors. Memories swirl and claw trying desperatly to get out. Fighting, struggling. There is something not right here on this mountain. Mathew can tell - even if the others can't.
1. Prolog

A/N: Look! Another story written for a challenge issued by MidnightNimh for the Writing Junkie Forum. The chapters will soon be getting longer and I can see this plot quickly spiraling out of control. I hope that you all enjoy it!

* * *

><p>Mathew sighed, leaning forward so his forhead was resting on the cool glass of the window. They were too high up to see anything but sky and an endless array of soft, white clouds but he still knew where they were. It was the soft tugging in his chest, which got tighter and tighet the further North they flew, that gave it away. Directly below them was Manitoba, Canada - and the runway that they were supposed to have landed on.<p>

It wasn't too big of a surprise, having the pilot skip over his country. In fact, Mathew had almost grown to expect it. The pilot would miss Canada and go on with the rest of the flight, drop all of the other Nations off at the airport closest to their house, and then realize that there was still someone sitting in one of the seats. Apologies would ensue and then he would be taken home. It happened at almost every meeting.

Today, though, the thought that even Alfred's people were over-looking him hit harder than it normally did. Mathew told himself that it was just because he was tired. That, because this meeting had been so hectic and hard to get together, the stress was just making it all seem worse than it really was. That little voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounded so much like Francis it hurt, was wrong today just like it always was.

And the fact that they hadn't stopped in Canada, even though it was the first stop on the list, didn't mean that anything was getting worse.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Mathew gave another small sigh and closed his eyes. Maybe it just felt like this because Kumajirou hadn't come with him this time. The small bear had opted to stay home, firmly refusing to leave the couch and growling everytime Mathew went near him. It made the plane seem almost empty.

That, however, was far from the truth. The plane was loud and bustling with activity. Since it was supposed to be a smooth flight, most of them had gotten out of their assigned seats, moving about and yelling across the aisles.

Gilbert was making paper airplanes with the 'notes' that he had taken earlier. Arthur and Francis were up near the front of the plane shouting at each other over something or another; Mathew didn't bother to keep track of his parents fights anymore. Somewhere near the back of the plane, he could hear Feliciano and Romano argueing with each other over something.

Everyone was talking and the plane was no where near empty. But the seat beside Mathew was, as was his lap, and that made it seem like he was on the plane all alone.

"Hey! Alfred! I found the peanuts, dazi!" Yong Soo shouted from the very front of the plane, waving one hand in the air. Just as he did the plane gave a sharp jerk and he stumbled sideways, landing in a heap on Yao's lap.

Yao frowned down at his younger brother. "Get off of me, Im Yong Soo."

Yong Soo just grinned up at him. "Sorry, dazi! I wasn't expecting that."

Mathew gave the two Asian nations a small smile and shook his head. That was why he always stayed in his seat on the plane. Especially when they passed over his home-country during the winter months. Storms could pop up anywhere, at any time, and they wouldn't know about them until they'd flown right into the middle of it.

Several long moments passed, with Yong Soo refusing to get off of his older brother's lap, and the plane gave no more signs of hitting turbulence. Mathew turned back to gazing out the window, peering through the clouds in an attempt to see the ocean below them. They were over his land, flying instead over the portion of ocean that belonged to him.

And a slight headache blossoming behind his eyes told him that it might not be a good thing.

The plane gave another shudder. Yao shoved Yong Soo off of him and onto the floor. The door to the bathroom clicked shut, louder than it should have. Alfred stood up from his seat and made to start down the aisle.

A larger shudder than before and, this time, the emergency lights came on with it.

**"PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEATS AND FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."** A fritzing noise signaled that the loud-speaker had just been turned off.

Mathew frowned and peered out the window again. The clouds were still white and, as far as he could see, the sun was still shining. There was no sign of a storm brewing - but the plane was shaking again, more violantly this time, and that pounding in the back of his head was still there.

A moment passed, then two, and suddenly the entire plane was shaking. The clasps of the baggage compartments came undone and luggage rained down on the passengers. Drinks spilled and computers hit the floor. The pain in Mathew's head spiked, feeling as though something was trying to claw its way out of his skull, and he vaguely noted that someone was screaming. He was too caught up in the pain to realize the sound was coming from his own mouth.

Nor did he realize that his shout sent the other Nations into a panic.

Yong Soo scrabbled to grab a hold of something as the plane rocked. His leg slammed into the metal anchoring of the seat in front of Yao; fabric and leg a like snagging on the piece of metal that jutted out. He let out a yelp and jerked his leg towards his body, one hand managing to grab one of his older brothers legs. The Chinese Nation was too busy hanging on to Ivan, who had wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him against his side, to offer Yong Soo any help.

In the back of the plane, Alfred's legs gave out beneath him and he went tumbling down to the floor. The plane jerked, and it was sputtering now too and making noises that no airborne plane should ever make, and the flailing American went rolling down the aisle. His side slammed into a seat, knocking the air out of him, and then someone had reached down and grabbed him by the jacket.

"Hol' st'll." Berwald grunted. There was no room to pull Alfred up off the floor - and no time, either, because at that exact moment the plane gave a deafening crack.

The crackling of electricity filled the air and wind drowned out all else. Alfred screamed and it was only Berwald's grip on him that kept the other nation from being sucked away from the back of the plane. Right into the split that had formed on the floor in the middle of the aisle.

And chaos was the only word that could describe the going-on's of Flight 313 at that moment.

The gap in the floor travelled the entire length of the plane. Sparks flew out of it and a siren went off twice before, along with every other flashing light in the plane, going off. Another shudder, accompanied with static-filled air, and the gap turned into a crack and that into a split that ran the entire length of the plane.

No one knew what was happening until they were plummeting through the air - two seperate halves going in two seperate directions.

If any Nation had been able to pay attention, they would have heard a deep, gravely laughter that mixed in with the wind. It howled and howled and laughed and laughed as the plane split and fell towards what should have been empty ocean. And when it hit land instead, in an explosion of fire and snow, metal and rock, the laughter quieted along with the wind. Both falling into an almost revered silence as they waited to see what Nations would pass their test, if any.


	2. Smoke Filled Air

A/N: Don't be surprised if it takes longer for the next update. I have a full plate in real life - what with the holidays and school and all that good stuff. But! I will try my best to update at least once more before Christmas! Maybe. Hopefully...

* * *

><p><em>The scent of blood was heavy in the air. It made the atmosphere thick and hard to breath, harder than it normally was in the marshes. It was almost constricting, the way it wormed its way into every haggard breath and clung to the inside of his throat. Like the enemy had gotten behind him and wrapped their hands around him.<em>

_A harsh cough racked through Mathew's body, thin and battered and bloodied, but not broken, never broken, and nearly knocked him over. A calloused hand, dark with mud and the dried blood of his soldiers, swung out and grabbed onto a low-hanging branch to steady himself before he toppled over. _

_The hacks didn't let up until a fellow Canadian stopped in his march and placed a hand on his back. It was a soft-touch, mindful of wounds that covered the skin there, but it still hurt; like fire and knives and salt in an open wound._

_Mathew's breath caught in his throat, twisted and stuck, before coming out in a jagged rush of air. He cast the soldier, Jeremy Spul, age nineteen, a grateful look and the march continued. Just like that. No pausing and no stopping and no 'are you okay's. There wasn't any time for those formalities._

_There was no beat to march to, from drums or otherwise, and all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of sick and injured soldiers and the 'thwulp' of boots being pried from mud with every step taken. Pain shot through the blond nations body with each step, shooting up his legs and his spine, travelling out his arms and down into his fingers, yet his pace stayed the same as the rest of the troop. In his mind, there was no reason that he shouldn't be able to keep up with them. They were just as hurt as he was, after all._

_At least until the 'pitter-patter' of a gun being fire was heard and pain exploded in his chest. No blood ran from him but a soldier in front of him fell to the ground, body quickly being sucked up by the mud that they were hiking through._

_More shots were fired, from both sides, and Mathew was right there. Bullets flew and people fell and Mathew felt like his whole chest was on fire because it was __his people dieing__! Another burst of pain exploded in him, this time in his lower stomache, and this time the blood ran. And it ran and ran and ran and Mathew never stopped shooting even when he was kneeling in the dark brown gunk and his throat was being constircted again because there was just somuchblood-_

A loud gasp wrenched itself from Mathew and he jerked up into a half-sitting position; only to fall back down, clutching at his left shoulder and struggling to get in a decent breath of air. All he got was the thick, acrid odor of smoke and the heady scent of mud and spilt blood. It stung his eyes and only made the burning in his arm that much worse.

Really, all Mathew wanted to do was lay there. To wait for everything to calm down, for his arm and throat to stop hurting, for his mind to clear itself of the images of war that were still floating there. But he could hear someone shouting and there was a horrid mix of burning heat and freezing cold in the air that was starting to make him feel ill. Instincts were screaming at him to move - because something was wrong and he could tell, even if his eyes were still shut and the thought of opening them wasn't a pleasent one.

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring the way the air sliced at his throat, Mathew rolled himself onto his stomach before pushing up onto both hands and knees. The metal fuselage burnt the bare skins of his palms; he could feel it blistering and when he pulled them away, reeling back onto his knees with a loud hiss of pain, the skin tugged and ripped. Warm blood dribbled down his hands, running down his wrists and staining the sleeves of his sweatshirt a darker shade of red. Even though the air was hot enough to make him sweat, an unbearable cold had started to seep through the legs of his jeans; stinging his legs and making them tremble, like he'd sat down in a pile of snow.

Smoke was thick in the air, blocking most of the planes features from him, and he couldn't see to get out. The smog didn't seem to end anywhere - no light from the outside shining through it, just the glow of flames that had spouted from the tears in the metal and were now licking at what had once been the seats of the plane. Mathew buried his nose in the nook of his elbow and let out a string of loud and harsh coughs. As he did, the sound of someone shouting broke through the otherwise steady crackle of flames. Mathew couldn't make out the words but he could hear the panic in the other man's voice; and, again, instincts kicked in and Mathew found himself dropping into a crawl and moving towards where he thought he'd heard the voice.

Every movement sent waves of pain shooting through his left arm, up into his shoulder, and then traveling down into his back. Strong cold seeped through the heavy fabric of his sweatshirt, chilling him almost faster than the air could heat him.

Another shout and Mathew changed his direction and his speed. The voice he heard was recognized this time. It was Tino; and if the small Nation had raised his voice like that, it meant that something was more than a little wrong.

For most Nations, a trip across the heaps of baggage and around the spots of flames might have been difficult. Most of them hadn't been in active training for years. Some of them had even gone centuries without it. Swinging back into the Instincts of War was difficult for them, both physically and mentally - because there was nothing more prone to bring up the feelings and memories of their country then going through the motions of a battle. This was not the case for the small Canadian Nation. At least, not at that moment. In that moment, the only things that Mathew could think of were finding Tino.

And that's what he did.

Weaving his way around bursts of fire and strewn bags, Mathew followed the panicked voice to the rear of the plane. Eventually, he could make out the figure of Tino; hunched over something far larger than he was. Even through the smoke Mathew could make out the sheen of blood in Tino's shaggy mop of blond hair.

"Tino? We need to get out of here." Mathew rasped.

The Finnish Nation jumped, startled. He hadn't actually expected anyone to come back and find him. Spinning around, Tino went to give the other Nation a grateful smile. Only to falter and stare instead; confusion clear on his face when he found that he didn't recognize the person crouched in front of him.

"Excuse me?" Tino asked, squinting his eyes to try and get a better look through all the smoke. It almost looked like Alfred crouched there but he knew that couldn't be it. Alfred was with Berwald and Berwald was - suddenly, Tino was spinning around once more stooping to try and pry the sheet of metal up off of where it had been lodged.

When the plane hit the ground, or whatever it was that they had slammed into, it hadn't just slammed and stuck. It had slammed, rolled, and then slammed again. And when that happened, the side that had first made contact with the earth had buckled, cracking in spots and bending inwards in others. The row of seats that Tino had been sharing with Berwald had been one of those spots.

A section of the fueslage that had once made up the wall of the plane had splintered inwards. One side breaking off from the rest of the plane and lodging itself against the legs of the row of seats in front of Berwald's. The other side had buckled downwards by the force of the impact, creating an almost box-like area in the plane and trapping Berwald in his seat. Alfred was in the little box-area as well, though Tino wasn't exactly sure where he'd been flung too.

With some difficulty, Mathew managed to push himself up onto both legs. Niether one seemed to be as hurt as his shoulder. Of course, that only meant that niether hurt as badly and they didn't seem to be broken, sprained, or missing. A good thing, he supposed.

The instant that he stood up though, all he could breath in was smoke. Thick, lung-choking, throat-burning, smoke. The air was hotter as well. It didn't bode well for the Canadian. Burning planes didn't bode well with him. They brought up memories that he desperatly tried to keep buried and phantom aches from wounds long-healed.

And they were dangerous beyond reason.

"Tino, if you aren't hurt we should get out of here." Mathew said, stepping forward so that he was standing right behind the other Nation.

Tino steadfastly shook his head, then winced because the motion only worsened his headache and sent his vision blurring. "I-I can't! Berwald's stuck in his seat! And Alfred too, I think. We need to get them out!"

Mathew blinked.

Alfred was stuck? His brother? Caught under the metal that Tino was tugging at? The thought sent a shot of fear through Mathew, and he scrabbled forward and crouched down again. Starting at a spot further up, where the metal wasn't yet touching the floor of the plane, Mathew curled his fingers around the fuselage. The cold metal burnt his bare skin. When he leaned into it and started to push upwards, it cut his palms. But the sheet of metal gave a groan and moved up by a half-inch.

Scooting his hands down and wedging them intot he spot that had just been lifted from the ground, the skin of his hands tugging and burning when he moved it from their previous spot, Mathew gave another heave. Tino followed suit.

Bit by bit, the two Nations lifted up the battered fuselage. It didn't hurt Mathew's shoulder or hands to do so after a moment, as both had gone rather numb. Beside him, Tino was wavering. The smoke was getting to him; each breath was harder to take then the last and the coughs were coming more and more frequently, shaking his body and sending waves of dizzyness through him.

So it only made since that when they got the fuselage up high enough, Mathew wordlessly slipped under it. The quicker they all got out of the burning plane, the better.

"Berwald?" Mathew called. His voice was hoarse though and his throat sore. The words came out soft and raspy.

A rustle of fabric sounded before an equally raspy voice answered him. " 'M ove' h're."

Berwald was leaning against what had once been his seat. His glasses were gone and there was a bruise blossoming over one eye but Mathew didn't see much else wrong with the Nordic Nation. But he'd learnt long ago that appearences were decieving and, with his instincts still screaming in the back of his mind, he gave the larger man another look over.

This time, Mathew could see where the fuselage was pinning Berwald's arm to the cushion of his seat.

" 'M stuc'." Berwald stated. He didn't recognize the person in front of him but the aura that every Nation gave off was strong. And that meant that, more likely than not, he was there to help.

Mathew's answer, blunt as it had been, was cut off by a spiraling set of coughs. It dissuaded him from actually wasting his breath on answering the other man. Instead he scrabbled forward, once more on hands and knees, and squeezed into the small space between Berwald and the fuselage.

This particular spot, the one keeping Berwald from moving anywhere, had sunken in low enough that it kept the Canadian from standing up. The awkward angle kept him from levering it up any with his hands, which probably would have done nothing even if he had tried that. So Mathew did the only thing he could think of doing. He scooted as close as he could to the seat, pressed his right shoulder against the freezing metal, and then pushed upwards as hard as he could. It was cold and all Mathew could feel in that shoulder was an almost unbearable pressure and pins and needles.

At first nothing happened. The fuselage stayed firmly in place. But Mathew could feel Berwald's eyes on him and Tino was still trying to heft it up further on the otherside and, with a strangled creak and a grunt from the Canadian, the metal moved. Just slightly, but it was enough to encourage Mathew. A few moments more and the sheet was up fur enough that Berwald could slide his arm out from beneath it.

"Th'nks." Berwald muttered. Without his glasses, his vision was blurred terribly. He couldn't make out any distinguishing features on the other man; nothing that sparked a name or a memory of any sort.

Mathew nodded. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs to answer - and what he could get in still reeked of the swamplands, stung of the cold, and choked him with smoke. He was cold, cold enough that he could no longer feel any aches from his shoulder or hands, and his head was swimming. It was only the adrenaline coursing through him and the voice in the back of his head, one that spoke in loud and brazen French and ordered him not to sit down yet, that kept him in an upright position.

"Do you know where Alfred is?" Mathew asked breathlessely. Because he didn't see his brother in any of the seats and couldn't think of where else the American would be. He didn't want to think about why Alfred hadn't already called out to him, or to Berwald or Tino for that matter.

Berwald gave a small nod and, cradeling the arm that had been stuck to his chest, inched forward to the row of seats in front of him. When the plane had first started spiraling, Alfred had slipped from his grasp. He was almost positive that the American Nation had slid underneath of the other chairs. Reaching under them with his good arm, and grabbing onto what he hoped was the other Nation, the Swedish man gave a tug. With a rip and an unhealthy sounding pop, Alfred came sliding out from where he'd been wedged - unconscious and pale.

"Al!" Mathew yelped, knee-walking over to his almost-twin.

Berwald was already squeezing out through the gap that Mathew and Tino had made a few minutes ago. The Canadian could hear Tino saying something, and Berwald rumbling out an answer, and then Berwald was sticking his head into the hole again. "C'min?"

Mathew nodded. "Y-yes."

Scooping his prone brother into his arms, and pulling Alfred close to his chest, Mathew started a slow waddle backwards. The moment he breached the other side, someone lifting Alfred from his arms.

They had already started to leave, getting lost in the thick plumes of smoke, by the time Mathew managed to turn and look at them.

"He says there's an exit over that way." Tino whispered, breaking into a cough right after the last word left his mouth.

Berwald was already up and next to him, the arm that wasn't hurt in the crash slung over Tino's shoulder. "C'mon. L't's go."

Neither of the two northern Nations bothered to crouch when they left. To Mathew, that was one of the hardest thing to forget. Over and over again, it had been ingrained into his mind.

_Smoke. Get low. Fire. Get out. _

And that was exactly what Mathew did. In a slow soldier-crawl, back over the piles of upturned luggage and around simmering spots of fire, he inched towards what had to be the exit. Head down and breath uneven, eyes burning and vision blurry, always in a straight line.

He didn't think that daylight could look so sweet.


	3. Struggling To Safety

A/N: Chapter Three, up and ready to be read! Heh, I hope it didn't take me too long to post this chapter. And that you all like it as much as you liked the other chapters! I, personally, am not that fond of the beginning but think that it really picks up as the chapter continues. And, uh, I don't actually want to bore you by writing a crap-ton of stuff up here. Not like you all really read these things, right? ^.^' Anywho, enjjoy!

* * *

><p>It had been almost three hours since everyone made it out of the burning shell of what used to be the back end of their plane and, still, nothing had gotten done. Injuries had not been tended to, shelter hadn't been found, and no one had even bothered to try and figure out what frozen chunk of land they had crashed onto. Everyone was too absorbed in their own misery and bewilderment to think straight.<p>

Mathew thought it was all fairly pathetic.

The other Nations were acting like this was the first disaster they had ever been in. And, while it was one of the more unusual ones, that was far from being true. Living through disasters was what made a Nation a Nation. Rising up from the ashes of a fallen city or a lost battle: that was what they lived for and strived for, and everyone in that crash had shoved those ashes aside before. This should have been child's play for them.

But many of the Nations hadn't been to war for a long time, and they hadn't been through training for one in even longer. Wits and instincts had rusted over and been pushed into the back of their minds, replaced instead by the fantasies of their people and the urge to wallow instead of take action.

A harsh, icy wind drew Mathew out of his thoughts. Even through his thick hoodie, and the sun shining brightly above him, the cold of the snow capped mountain chilled him to the bone. It was one of the many things concerning him at that moment - along with the fact that his arms and legs were almost completely numb and that Alfred was still unconscious, sprawled out in the snow beside him.

The weather they were caught in was worse then the fact that not a single Nation had escaped uninjured. If it was that cold during the middle of the day, when the sun was high in the sky and unhindered by clouds of any sort, then when it started to get dark out they would be in serious trouble.

It's that thought that drove Mathew to his feet, despite the fact that he would much rather have just continued sitting in his little patch of snow with his brother. The sound of joints popping back into place filled the air and if he hadn't been so cold, he would have stopped to stretch his stiff muscles. Instead he crossed both arms over his chest, shoved his shaking hands under his armpits, and ducked his head as he made his way to where the other Nations were all sitting.

Their half of the plane had crashed on a ledge of sorts. It was a large snow-covered, open area. A small portion was lined with a thick grove of bushy pine trees and elm trees. The majority of their little ledge was lined with the steep and uneven walls of a mountain - one that just seemed to stretch on and on like a grey giant, covered in craggs and outcroppings and small caverns dug into the side of the cliff wall. And the rest of it, including just several feet away from where they had landed, was nothing more then a sheer drop off the side of the mountain. The plane itself was still smoldering in spots, letting dark whisps of smoke fill up the other wise clear sky.

And, for a reason that he hadn't yet figured out, Mathew felt as though he'd been there before. Rather, he felt the tug in his chest that told him when he was on his own soil or passing over his own waters. But this land was far from being a part of Canada and it was far from somewhere that the Canadian could actually _remember_ being before.

Mathew's steps were slow as he made his way over to the two Nations he wanted to speak with. As far as he could tell, the Italy Twins were the two least hurt out of them all. They were also the closest to him out of everyone, both of them hunched in the snow next to a chunk of fuselage that had broken off the plane on impact.

"Excuse me, Romano? Feliciano? C-could I speak with you for a moment?" Mathew asked, tounge thick in his mouth and words stilted by the chattering of his teeth.

Romano scowled at him. "No. Fuck off."

"Romano!" Felicano scolded, waggling one shaking finger at his twin. "Don't be so mean, vee! Maybe what he needs is important!"

Romano just scowled some more and curled into a smaller ball.

"What do you need, Alfred?" Feliciano asked warmly, beaming at the Nation that he thought was his friend.

A twinge went through Mathew, breath catching and twisting in his throat. One hand twitched slightly, fingers shuddering and then curling into a fist - and his smile never wavered save for when the chattering of his teeth got too bad. "Actually, Felic-ciano, I'm n-not Alfred. I'm Mathew."

The Italian Nation gave him a blank stare and an even blanker smile. "Oh. I knew that, vee! I was just teasing! What do you need?"

Mathew didn't miss the fact that Feliciano didn't say his name, or how the light blue eyes darted over to his twin for a moment before coming back to land on him. "I w-was wondering if I c-could get both of your h-help with something?"

Romano ignored him and Feliciano kept on smiling so the True North took that as a sign to continue.

~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~

"Is everyone out of the plane yet, Gilbert? Is there anyone still hurt, Gilbert? Go get me this, Gilbert, and now go get me that, Gilbert, and why isn't this done yet?" The Nation of Prussia muttered angrily to himself as he walked through the dense woods, voice dropped into a horrible impression of his younger brother.

Both hands were shoved in his jeans pockets, head tilted down in an attempt to keep the sharply cold wind from cutting into his face. Gilbert was firmly refusing to let himself shudder, despite the fact that in nothing but a tee-shirt and jeans he was absolutely freezing. But Ludwig had scolded him earlier for not wearing a jacket on the plane so now the Ex-Nation was refusing to admit to his brother that he was cold. Instead he tried to focus on talking to himself as he wondered around looking for a couple of large branches to use as firewood.

The front half of the plane, and it bothered Gilbert that they could only find the one half, had landed in a dip between two jagged chunks of mountain. The huge stone walls acted as a barrier for the wind and, back there, not having a coat on was just past being unbareable for someone like himself that was used to frigid weather. Out here, even with the protection of the closely grown spruce and fir trees, the wind was like a knife cutting into all of his exposed flesh.

"Of course West sent me out to get the stupid wood. Like someone that had a jacket wouldn't have been just as able." Gilbert kicked at a small mound of snow in front of him, letting out a delighted noise when the cold powder fell off of the top of a half-rotted log.

_That_ would be the perfect base for a fire!

Scooping the log up and tucking it underneath of one arm, resolutely telling himself that he hadn't started shaking and was just jittery from nerves, Gilbert continued on searching for more fuel.

~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~

Mathew wasn't in a good mood. Of course, he hadn't be in that great of a mood back when they were at the sight of the plane crash but now it was even worse. It was beyond cold and his shoulder and hands hurt and his head was throbbing again and, for the better part of an hour, Romano had done nothing but _stare_ at him. The simple fact that Mathew knew an hour had passed was disturbing the Nation as well - because, unless he was in his own country, he shouldn't be able to figure out how much time had passed. He shouldn't be able to just _sense_ that the sun would set in exactly three hours or that it was only four o' clock in the evening.

But he did. And that bothered the blond almost more than the persistant staring did.

Wrapping his arms closer to his body, ignoring the uncomfortable and tell-tale prickle at the base of his shoulder as he did, Mathew risked lifting his head away from his chest to look at the forest surrounding him. Immidiatly, strong gusts of freezing air slapped him in the face. It stung his eyes and burnt his too-chapped lips. Not seeing anything that stood out, he let his chin drop back to rest on his chest.

Almost an hour away from the crash site and he still hadn't found anything that even remotely resembled shelter. Mathew had been hoping that, in all of the woodland on the mountain, they would be able to find _something_ decent to shelter them from the wind. Somewhere that they could easily start a fire without worry of wind or snow. Maybe where they could find something to eat; though he'd seen no sign of wildlife so far, not even a lonely squirrel, and none of the plants that he'd spotted bore anything that appeared edible.

It was beyond down-heartening.

If they couldn't find shelter from the wind and the cold, then they would all _die_ before they could even begin to think of a plane for getting off of the mountain. That much the blond knew. Because, even though they were Nations, they still hadn't healed themselves. His hands were still blistered and his muscles stiff, the one shoulder still giving dull pricks of not-quite-pain, and the long scratch on Romano's cheek had only barely scabbed over. Which meant that they weren't healing right. And, to Mathew, that told him that there was quite a possibility that other things, such as death, could effect them while they were here.

It was a terriffying thought to someone that had never known the cold grip that Death had on a persons spirit. For a man that could fight and be injured and get maimed and burnt but never worry about closing his eyes and never opening them again.

Mathew had never faced off with Death before. He didn't want to do it now.

~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~

It was a mound. Made up of large stones, black and grey and almost blue in shade, the pile was twice as tall as Gilbert was. The base was almost three times as wide as it was tall, tapering into a thinner point as it reached towards the sky. Most of the stones were no bigger than his fist, with small cracks running over their surfaces, but on the very top of the stack sat one that appeared to be roughly the size of the Ex-Nation's head. This rock caused the mound to form not a point, but a leveled out top.

The forest abruptly stopped a good twenty feet away from the mound. There hadn't been any thinning of trees before hand to let Gilbert know about a break in the woods. It just stopped; and with it so did the dirt-tainted snow that had covered the ground. Instead the snow that surrounded the odd pile of rocks was a pure white, as if no creature had ever set foot on it before.

From where Gilbert was standing, just on the inside of the ring of trees and not quite in the clearing, the top stone appeared to be just as white and unblemished as the snow on the ground. It struck him as odd that only that one rock was lightly colored and uncracked. Though, really the whole image before him was a strange one.

But that one stone was different from all of the others. Gilbert could _feel_ that it was different. That there was something about it that wasn't the same as the others - something that wasn't _right_ or _normal_. So he did what he always did in a situation like this.

He tucked the pile of sticks that he was carrying under one arm, ignoring the couple of twigs that fell to the ground, and took a step into the clearing to investigate.

~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~

The cave, if you wanted to call it that, was small. It had a wide mouth that let both wind and snow inside and looked like it was just barely big enough to hold most of the Nations that had been in the back end of the plane. Maybe with enough room for a fire - though, in the rapdily fading light, that seemed like an unlikely possibility. The air coming out of the cave carried a musty odor, almost as if something inside of it was molded over or rotting.

But, to Mathew and Romano, it looked like it came straight down from Heaven.

"F-finally! I didn't think we'd ever f-find something out h-here!" Romano said.

Mathew nodded in agreement. "We h-have been walking f-for a while."

It had been for longer than 'a while' though, and Mathew knew that. They only had an hour and a half until the sun set completely. Barely enough time to get back to plane and no where near enough time to get everyone to the cave. The thought sent Mathew's heart sinking.

"No s-shit." Romano snapped at him. "Now are you g-going to s-stand around 'till it g-gets dark or what? You h-have s-some s-sort of a brilliant plan, right?"

Mathew ignored the mocking tone in the Italian's voice. Instead he took a deep breath of the icy air and closed his eyes. Thought back to other times when he had been lost in the cold at night, back to when he held no name but his own and held the respect of many, imagined a place of nothing but sprawling snow and ice and a storm that had never been surpassed when it came to size or strength. He opened up a locked door in his mind, just a crack, and let the red haze that seeped out envelop him. Savoring its warmth and familiarity, Mathew gave a small crooked smile.

"Actually,' Mathew said softly, voice clear of the stutter that the cold had caused. 'I do."

"W-well, tell me w-what the f-fuck it is already!" Romano snapped. He was cold and tired and not in the mood for games.

"Clear out as much of the snow as you can and try to get a fire going. I'll go get the others." And then Mathew was gone, dissapearing back into the cramped forest and heading in what he was _sure_ was the direction of the plane.

~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~

The moment that Gilbert stepped into the clearing he could feel it. A change in the air. The former Nation couldn't think of a word that fit it but the sensation filled him with unease. With a feeling so eerily similar to being fear, which didn't make sense because the great nation of Prussia was _not_ afriad of a silly rock pile, creeped into him. Cold air brushed against his face, even though there was no wind.

And then a high-pitched scream seemed to fill the clearing. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. A long, wordless screech - filled with so much pain and sadness and _anger_ that it seemed almost demonic.

"Shit!" Gilbert shouted. Red eyes wide he stumbled backwards. One foot slipped in the fresh looking snow, his leg flying out from underneath of him, and he ended up falling backwards into the ring of forest.

The mountain side fell silent once again.


End file.
